If It Aint Love

"So? What do you think?" Whitt looked across the ink-stained oak table, and fell on Charlie at the other end.Hadley, who was slumped in a creaking leather chair, his trademark furrowed brow hidden by a stack of poorly printed documents.The gloomy expression alone was fine, what unnerved Whitt was the silence that spread in the room.It was always noisy here, filled with Hadley's growls now and then. "Haven't you seen such a good report? Enough to win a Pulitzer Prize?"

Hadley put the papers back on the table and looked at Whit.The little bit of teasing and almost invisible sympathy in that gaze made Whitt's heart plummet even worse than when Hadley rejected the manuscript last time—wasn't it two weeks ago? ──A deeper place.If Hadley accepts the report, at least it means that Hadley still has a glimmer of hope in him, and believes that given enough time and patience, one of the best reporters in the past can be revived.

"What do I think?" Hadley pulled a pack of Camel cigarettes from the pile, its permanent post next to a smiling photo of Hadley's wife and children. "I think Mrs Glasby's little parrot must be in love."

"Then I'll get a Pulitzer for writing the most popular birdcage liner." Whit looked at the pack of cigarettes with particular eagerness, probably because his pocket happened to be empty.But smoking on an empty stomach is not good. "Will you use this report?"

Note ①: It is often used to jokingly refer to newspapers that no one reads.

"Do you think I should adopt it?"

"I still have a pretty good sense of smell in this area, but it's just recently—it happens to be allergy season."

"I think so." Hadley lit his cigarette. "Why don't you use your sensitive nose and go uptown to sniff if there's anything else good about Carnival at Dorrington?"

Whit shook his head.He hasn't completely given up his pride yet. "I don't write such tear-jerking suicide stories. Leave it to young people who are still fascinated by the ethereal fear of death."

Hadley sneered, blowing a puff of cigarette into the stale office air. "How old are you—28?"

He almost wanted to take a puff as the puff of smoke drifted past Whit, but he held back. "29."

"I see you can write for a few more years," Hadley said.

He might have agreed with that four years ago, when the world hadn't plunged into the abyss.Whit sat upright a little, and finally threw the question that hung dead on his shoulders, "Lend me a little to get me through this week?"

Hadley raised his eyebrows and brushed back the messy gray hair from his forehead. "The five yuan I borrowed from you last time was used up so quickly?"

"Yeah, I bought a speedboat." Whit retorted, "What do you think five dollars can do?"

"Did you go to Demonico for dinner?"

Note ②: Delmonico's, the first high-end restaurant in New York.

"When was the last time you had a ham sandwich and soda in Demonico?"

"Okay, you take it." Hadley pulled a dollar bill from his pocket.Whit breathed a sigh of relief; he hated the snobby clerk in the accounting office.

"Thanks, Charlie."

"Whatever. Don't spend it all, save a little for good times, you know?"

"The good days," he chuckled, "haven't you heard? The good days are coming to an end. No more. Let's enjoy the bad days." Whit's calm tone pretended not to be very clever, he Get up before the shame sets in, and head for the door.

"Don't forget the Dorrington report," Hadley called to him, "you sell newspapers by grabbing public interest, you know?"

Public concern.Whit made a face to himself in the empty hallway and headed for the elevator.He has lost all public concern of late.The preacher he'd seen this morning in the line of people waiting for his handouts had only convinced him of what he knew about humanity; most people in this world could be clearly divided into two groups.One group of people is like hyenas, they are immoral, they only care about the first one to grab the fresh meat; the other group of people are like lambs, they don't know that they are about to be ripped apart and eaten, and they foolishly send them to the door.As long as they are verbally assured that tomorrow will be better, they will believe it.is not that right?Tomorrow will indeed be better.

For hyenas.

This is God's punishment.The missionary accuses the crowd with a dignified countenance, as if he were pardoned for being a member of humanity.Whit looked at the train of sleepy and hopeless faces and wondered what their crimes really were.Did any of them commit a heinous crime?No one listened to the preacher, and Whit was slightly relieved.Hungry and anxious, they haven't had a good night's sleep for months—maybe years.It's good to split your mind for a while, at least to fend off those other damn worries, if only for a while.The world is falling apart and no one can put it back together, not even Roosevelt.

Whit flattened the crumpled note, folded it, and stuffed it discreetly into his vest pocket.He also had to save a part to find a place to stay at night.Given the choice, he wouldn't want to sleep on the porch anymore.He walked towards Rivington against the biting cold wind, secretly praying that the line waiting for relief had been shortened.But as soon as he reached the corner, his hopes were quickly extinguished; the line was long and endless.Not even the darkening sky could make the crowd disperse.In fact, these people had no time to pay attention to the weather, and their growling stomachs drove them to shuffle into the procession.When the first rain fell, they still stood tenaciously in the rain.

Whit was unable to join the queue.It's a cold night, but he's a real jerk if he's in line for handouts before the rest when he's clearly able to eat with a dollar in his pocket.It was ridiculous that having a dollar made him feel privileged.But a one-eyed man in the land of the blind.He walked along the gutter, yielding the sidewalk to the waiting line.He tried to make eye contact with those people as they passed by, and if he could exchange a knowing nod or a sad smile with them, he would somehow feel less like those well-dressed, top-hatted dinner parties on the Garden Avenue. and there was meat loaf and macaroni and cheese on the supper table.

But almost everyone's attention was firmly locked on the entrance of the soup kitchen ahead.Those who are not traveling alone are huddled together with their companions, earnestly confirming the speed of the team every few steps, as if this cannot be known with their eyes closed.Whit continued on, past district after district, and suddenly met the eyes of a man who was alone in the line.The man's shoulders were arched, his face was pale under the dim light of the street lamps, his eyes were swollen from crying and his wet face made Whit unable to move.He thought he was indifferent to other people's tears.

"Hey," he said in a low voice, trying not to attract the attention of others, and stepped onto the sidewalk, taking a step closer to the man. "The food here is as good as bad." He tried to smile, hoping to be more sincere. "Come with me, I can buy you a cup of coffee."

The man just looked at him, as if he wasn't sure what to make of what he said.The woman behind the man understands everything. "The end of the line is over there," the anger in her tone attracted the attention of the surroundings.She rudely patted the crying man on the shoulder, "You can't let him jump in line."

"It's not fair," agreed the old gentleman behind her.

"I didn't want to jump in line," Whit said in surprise.

The weeping man curled his lips into an arc of disgust. "Are you trying to cost me my seat?"

"Leave him alone," the woman said.

"Selfish," the old gentleman scolded him in a low voice.

Whit's stomach tightened, and it wasn't all hunger.Selfish.well said.After all, he had a dollar in his pocket, but he didn't share it generously. "Enjoy your soup."

He was supposed to have a meal in the dining car, but the diner across the street from the soup kitchen was still open, so he walked in there in front of the weeping man and his guards.He didn't look back to see if those people noticed.He didn't want to bother anymore.He doesn't care anymore.

The restaurant smelled of onions and garlic, obviously they had added a lot to the old meat.Whit looked at the skinny beef stew and chicken stew, and decided not to take the risk, lest he vomit all night holding the toilet in the homeless home.He ordered a bowl of noodles and some bread, and served them to the most remote corner table he could find.Public concern.This restaurant alone has enough publicity to fill the pages of a dozen newspapers -- but people get tired of the sameness quickly.Hard-pressed couples, families struggling financially, everyone is struggling with the bottom line.

Accompanied by stale bread, he swallowed the tasteless noodles like medicine.While eating, he saw a middle-aged man with the brim of his hat lowered walking around the table where the guests had just left, stopping from time to time to sweep the bread crumbs into his mouth, or to clean the chicken bones.What a cruel thing this is, Whitt wondered. People can't sleep through the winter with food like bears.But winter will not spare anyone.Winter has taken root.

It was raining heavily when he left the restaurant.That wretched crowd still gathered on the pavement is undoubtedly under God's judgment.The rain washed away the last remaining colors of the world, and Whit hurried toward the hotel—the title was a compliment—through darker and grayer neighborhoods.He may not have come from a wealthy Vanderbilt or Rockefeller family, but he knew what a hotel was like; A dry, flat and dirty mattress is not a hotel.But these filthy, drenched people around them, who looked as miserable as their surroundings, weren't much of a guest.

Note ③: The Vanderbilts, from the Netherlands, have expanded their financial resources from shipping and rail transportation to other fields. They are famous for many luxury properties and are the seventh wealthiest family in history.

Note ④: The Rockefeller, an American industrial family, revolutionized the oil industry. During its heyday, it monopolized 90% of the oil market in the United States, and became the richest family in the world at the beginning of the 20th century.

Except maybe one person.

Whitt had seen many expensive leather shoes appear on the worn carpets of homeless homes, and their owners had probably walked miles to get a job and got them out of shape.Not so with his wet shoes in the bunk next door, which were nearly new and freshly oiled.The coat with shiny dark brown buttons was also new, and the brown twill suit in glossy twill was smoother. Whitt hadn't seen anything so clean and smooth on the street in years.He thought at first that this person might be an outlaw, but the introspective silence in those eyes, coupled with the way the other person lay casually on the bed, leaning against the head of the bed with a hat on, overturned his first impression.The other party was absent-minded and didn't seem to notice Whit's gaze, and Whit took the opportunity to appreciate it.His facial features were sharp and angular, but not glaring. Whit guessed that the brown hair should be combed in an orderly manner by the owner, but now it became a strand of hair scattered on the forehead.Between the squashed hat and the new shoes, his lanky frame might not be considered muscular, but it was enough to keep a woman warm at night--or maybe a man.

Mostly women.Whit lay back, regretting not asking Charlie for a pack of Camels.He cast a glance at his shopmate, "Any cigarettes?"

The man struggled to shift his gaze to him before forcing out an apologetic smile. "I don't smoke."

"Really? So how else do you pass the time?"

Unexpectedly, these words made the faint smile on the other party's face disappear instantly. Under the dim light, those eyes reflected a deep blue color, but the focus in them soon drifted to the distance again. "I've never thought about that before," he said after a moment. "What about you?" He looked at Whit. "Besides smoking?"

Whit thought for a moment. "Drink. Sleep. Sometimes to eat." Rarely. "If you have the time, these are good options."

"I have plenty of time now."

"Just lost your job?"

"So to speak." The blue eyes looked away again, looking listlessly at the newcomers who found their beds in silence and fell asleep almost as soon as they touched them. "Someone is crying," he whispered.

He was talking about the people who were several bunks away from them.Whit heard it too, and he shrugged, "It's a way to pass the time." He slid down, letting the pillow cover his hearing. "Are you drinking?" he asked with faint anticipation.

"It's about three or five o'clock."

"Could it be that you just have it at hand—" Whitt glanced at the man's coat pocket showing half of the bottle.People always celebrate losing their jobs with good whiskey, and you can bet no mistake about it. "Thanks." The bottle was almost full, and Whit took a big gulp before returning it to the other party.There was a faint hint of interest in those blue eyes, which unexpectedly cheered him up. "May I have your name?"

"Peter—" the other party didn't continue.

It doesn't matter. "I'm Whit."

The interest in the other party's eyes turned to curiosity. "Whitmore?"

Whit responded with a flat smile. "It's Whit."

Peter nodded, half greeting and half understanding. "Have you been unemployed for a long time?"

Whit lay back. "You can say that."

"Do you come here often? I didn't see you yesterday."

"As long as it's a room, I can sleep anywhere." Sleepiness struck, and Whit hesitated between closing his eyes and getting to the bottom of it. "You were evicted by the landlord?"

"I—" Peter hesitated for a moment, then whispered, "Not yet."

"Just want to get used to the days when there is no place to sleep?"

"Early plan and good morning."

Whit snorted, but couldn't help laughing after all.He was glad that this time his laughter was free of the sarcasm that had always accompanied him. "I would have believed you if you hadn't been wearing a dinner outfit."

"Does that count?" There was no sarcasm in Peter's tone, just pure surprise, as if he really didn't notice what he was wearing. "I know it's not like what the unemployed would wear—"

"Don't worry, it'll be like that in a couple of weeks. But I have to say, I'm surprised they'll let you in when you're wearing this. There's a set of standards for trying to live on the Bowery."

"I noticed." Peter's tone was sarcastic, but his despair was too fresh to hide, and the sharpness of the words was compromised. "The guy at the door is a slacker, he didn't even look at me, and he didn't care about anyone who walked in." At this moment, two men staggered past, they supported each other, and then collapsed on the same bunk.They laughed and fought and started trying to push each other off the mattress.Whit wondered if they would pass out first or keep the room awake at night.He considered urging Peter to give the pair a sip or two, but he didn't want to waste such a good whiskey.

Peter seemed to be thinking the same thing, but after looking at it for a moment, he turned suddenly to Whit, raised his eyebrows, and whispered, "I think they've gotten carried away."

Whit propped his elbows to look at the bunk behind Peter.The two men stopped pushing each other out of bed now and started another wrestling.The taller of the two pinned the other on the bed and kissed him—to hell with the public space.As they rolled together, the skinny man's suit opened and his chest popped out, which was clearly part of a woman's body.Whit had been sympathetic to the pleasure, and now the momentary irritation turned to pathetic irritation. "For heaven's sake." He threw back on the pillow and closed his eyes.Someone is always going to come and kick her out, it just can't come fast enough...

He opened his eyes at a chuckle, thinking that Peter had seen something good; but Peter just looked at him and smiled, as if he felt the same way.Despite his limited knowledge of the Bowery, Peter didn't seem surprised by what was happening, not even when he thought the two were men.He took out the whiskey and handed it to Whit. "Where do the ladies usually spend the night?"

"God knows." Whit took the bottle. "As long as you think about it, it's not easy to find a partner here. It's a piece of cake." He turned his gaze back to the couple, and the man had already started to drunkenly push the woman on top of her, and his saliva dripped down her shoulder. He said in admiration Watched for 1 minute. "Your house—" he turned to Peter, "can you live until the end of this month?"

A look of discomfort appeared on Peter's face. "I'm not sure. Why do you ask?"

"Because I don't think you're in this damn place just to get used to it."

Peter looked at him warily.That could be an answer, but Whit continued to wait.He didn't worry about being caught in jail and facing a fine he couldn't pay.He was pretty sure Peter wasn't a cop; Whitt could recognize the longing beneath Peter's raised vigilance, perhaps if Peter hadn't had a few extra sips of whiskey--but how Whitt saw it wasn't a question. important.Obviously he can stay in his own safe room and sleep on his own warm bed, but he chooses to sleep in this kind of flea nest and clothes, the reason is written in his expression.

And he didn't find women on the street to spend the night with, and that would have done the rest.

"If you're looking for a companion too—" Whitney emphasized the 'also' unmistakably, "I'm pretty good at gin rummy⑤, and I'm pretty good at backgammon⑥. It's up to you , happy to accompany you."

Note ⑤: Ginrummy, a card game.

Note ⑥: It can also be insinuated as a sexual matter.

Peter seemed to be holding his breath.But he finally sighed softly, as if afraid that his words would be misunderstood, "Will you?"

Whit shrugged, then smiled. "It's not me, it's him..." He gestured to the couple in another berth, who were entangled with each other, panting and moaning. "But I guess he won't be of much use tonight, so you'll have to pick me."

A smile crept into the corner of Peter's eyes. "This must be the arrangement of fate."

"Anyway, it can't be luck. Luck has long been used up."

"There's nothing left." It appeared again, the despair hidden under the pretended optimism.He had become accustomed to this tone of voice recently, but it still sounded harsh as it seemed to announce that a man was heading towards the end of self-destruction.It just reminded Whit that, deep down, he hadn't quite stopped hoping, even though he thought he had lost hope.